Isengard's Deceit: Half Truths and Half Orcs
by Zoop
Summary: Like any good breeder, Saruman had to start with quality stock. This is the story of one 'stud' in the breeding program that would later produce his Fighting Uruk-hai. Nod to Tirion, the inspiration for this story. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **In answer to a review for Chapter 22 of "Hookup of Epic Proportions" by Tirion. You got me to thinking about the early days of Saruman's breeding program, before the Voice smothered many of the natural instincts of the Uruk-hai. Luckily, a setting was already in place to make this story happen.

* * *

_Nûrzgrat took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Back in the old days, there weren't many of us. Sharkû wasn't too particular about who got to breed. I... got to. Once."_

_"Breed?" Brianna said uncertainly. She had a feeling she wasn't going to like what he had to say._

_He grunted a humorless laugh. "Where do you think we came from? Sharkû had females from Dunland, Rohan, probably Gondor... I don't know where else. First couple litters of us were made by these big mountain orcs he got from up north or somewhere. You think Morkoth and Ghru are huge, you shoulda seen those bastards."_

_"They... raped those women, didn't they?"_

_"Course they did!" he replied. "You think females from those places would ever look at something like us and want to spread their legs? **Gah,** what a joke." Snorting, he said, "Sharkû didn't keep'em around long. They kept trying to run off with the females. Didn't wanna be kept in cages, either. He didn't have the kind of control over them he had with us."_

"Misfire of Global Proportions," Chapter 27

* * *

**Third Age, 2993**

There was no day and no night, only the dancing shadows cast by flickering torches along the damp stone walls. The tunnel was rough-hewn and uneven, winding away into darkness beyond his sight. The stench of sweat and filth hung like an almost visible fog in the moist air; his sharp senses had taken some while to learn how to shut it out. He ticked the passage of time by the meals those filthy little Goblins delivered, reckoning that two meant a day's passing.

If his mind was not gone yet, he had been in this hole for a week by that measure.

The white one with the long beard and the impressive show of power who came to his chieftain with promises of riches and spoils had yet to show his face in the dark tunnels. Nor had the Orc seen any from his clan since arriving. Recalling the moment when he passed through the gates into the valley urged a bitter growl from deep within him.

_Send me your best_, the white one told them, _and they shall be the making of my army_. All Sûmatuga had 'made' so far was a growing pile of shit in the back corner of his cell.

_You shall make sport of their women_, they were promised, _and feast on Man-flesh_. The latter had not been a lie, at least, but the former...

_My army shall lay waste to their country, burn every village, slay every horse that they hold so dear_, he'd said. _Your children's children shall boast of your warriors' prowess_.

It was _this_ lie that rankled Sûmatuga the most. He was not called forth to fight. He had not been given a weapon and shown where his enemies lay. The moment the gates closed, he and his fellows were waylaid by Goblins in the white one's employ. Hundreds of the sniveling little bastards. They carried no blades, but were armed with cudgels, beating the proud Shatûpshaatii warriors to their knees. Then the Orcs were stripped, chained, and dragged into the earth. When all was over, each warrior was locked in a separate cell many yards apart, unable to touch or speak.

Sûmatuga was accustomed to the underground, but not to such isolation. He longed for the comfort of warm bodies pressed together through the night, sharing warmth and kinship. He wished for a familiar face, one of his own kind, not these flat-faced, deformed, pathetic little runts.

He would even accept the sun's light, though it pained him to stand beneath it. Anything but _this_.

Sûmatuga spent the first few days of his captivity rattling the bars of his cage to no avail. Then he sought to scrape away the rock holding the bars, for they were shot through the stone from above, perhaps through a hole drilled in an upper level. His claws were not strong enough, and were severely damaged by the attempts. His cell was little more than five strides wide and five deep, as rough-hewn and lopsided as though scooped from the rock by a clumsy Orcling. Even if he were able to dislodge a bar without alerting the _snaga_ roaming the tunnels, it would take more than one to make a hole large enough for him to slip out.

Once he had an opportunity for escape, when his keepers brought a hunk of raw flesh for his meal. He managed to slay one and overcome the other, then run down the tunnel in search of a way out. Seemingly from the air, but likely from any of the small rat holes honeycombing the walls, a dozen or more Goblins appeared and beat him until darkness consumed him. He woke ill and sore, and once again in his cell. Then the Pitmaster came.

Caves were nothing new to him, and neither was the bite of the lash. But the Pitmaster, an old Orc of some eastern tribe by his accent, redefined pain for Sûmatuga. Once his back was flayed, which the mountain Orc endured with gritted teeth, the Pitmaster applied a gritty, greyish white substance to the open wounds that tore agonized screams from the Orc's throat and left him trembling for hours after.

Nearly every day, he saw or heard one of his clanmates making a break for it and being paid out for their desperation. Sûmatuga had no wish to be visited by the Pitmaster again for some while.

As days blended into nights with little difference, the Orc began pacing and remembering. He'd lived a long life with a sword in his hand; as a young pup, he remembered leaping down upon the heads of Men and Elves alike in a battle far away. How well he recalled the day, for so many were upon the field, and Bolg's leadership was certain to win a great victory for the Orcs. But even as they had the Dwarves, long hated for the sacking of Gundabad among other insults, on their knees and their allies dismayed, the skies bore Eagles into the fray. Soon the skies shed bloody tears as countless of their numbers were carried hundreds of feet up and dropped like bricks among the warriors, often slaying several with the impact. Bolg himself was brought low by a bear-shaped Man.

At least it was a great battle _before_ the Eagles came and ruined it, he mused.

After that, his folk fled south to the White Mountains, where they knew the followers of Azog, Bolg's sire, had long ago resettled. The remains of his people were haunted and pathetic; too many were slain by the horsemen of Rohan, driven into hiding and scraping to live. The foul sweetmeats nearly supplanted Dwarves in the Orcs' hate-filled eyes. The survivors who fought alongside Bolg roused Azog's followers, and over the course of decades began rebuilding what was lost. Sûmatuga recalled those days fondly, of training whelps, _making_ whelps, watching the clan grow in strength again...

His chieftains, he now realized, were so consumed with the need for vengeance against the horsemen that they were prepared to believe _any_ promise of the white one if it brought them closer to their goal.

It seemed that thoughts of the treacherous white one heralded his arrival, for several _snaga_ scurried to his cell and stuck spears through the bars to urge Sûmatuga away from the door. Behind them, the white one cast cold eyes upon the mountain Orc, seeming to see him and _not_ see him at the same time. It was a most unsettling look. He almost didn't notice the sweetmeat held by one of the Goblins.

"Step back," the white one commanded in a calm, cold voice. Snorting, Sûmatuga reluctantly obeyed. He found he had little choice in the matter, and that annoyed him. The door of his cell was opened, and the Goblin pushed the sweetmeat inside, then slammed the door closed again.

Sûmatuga glared at the yellow-haired female and curled his lip. So now the _other_ promise was being fulfilled. The female trembled and wept, unsurprisingly. There were few of its kind, called sweetmeats by his clan for obvious reasons, that didn't. What's more, it was delivered unclothed, as though to spare him unnecessary effort.

All other of the white one's promises had been lies, or at least distorted truths. There must be a trick in _this_ as well.

"What is _this_?" he snarled at the white one, pointing a clawed finger at the female. Without waiting for an answer, he advanced to the bars and held them, pale-knuckled with fury. "Why am I caged? How am I to fight down _here_? Where is my clan? What've you done with them?"

The white one merely gestured to a Goblin, who resignedly thrust his spear through the bars. Only Sûmatuga's honed reflexes, not yet dulled from idleness, saved him from a grievous belly wound. Roaring, he lunged at the Goblin, nearly catching hold of its ragged tunic as it leaped back out of reach.

"Save your energy, Orc," the white one said softly, his voice sending icicles down Sûmatuga's spine. "_That_ is a female of the race of Men. I had _hoped_ you would recognize it."

"I know what the fuck it is," he growled. "You said we would make sport of them. This ain't sport! I run down my own!"

"There will be no more running for you or your... clanmates," the white one sneered. "You will not slay this female, and she is not to be eaten. Disobedience, as the Pitmaster has no doubt demonstrated, is not tolerated. You were conscripted to raise my army, and so you shall."

"I can do nothing in this hole!" Sûmatuga bellowed, seething. The white one was just out of reach; if he would come closer, the Orc might get a hold of him...

"You will do all that I require of you," the white one replied. "Alas that you do not seem as intelligent as I had hoped. Nevertheless, you possess sufficient _other_ qualities that you are likely not a _complete_ waste of my time." Sighing heavily, for he clearly assumed he wouldn't have to elaborate, the white one explained, "You will breed with this female, Orc. She will bear your young. _That_ will be the making of my army, not _you_. I require your seed only." Gesturing toward the twitching figure huddled in the corner, he added, "Proceed."

Sûmatuga stared at the white one in shock. It wasn't the idea of rutting the female that repelled him; he'd frequently taken sweetmeat females and found the activity almost as satisfying as mating. What appalled him was the intention of producing _Orclings_ tainted with Man's blood by such an act.

"You're joking," he snarled in disbelief. The white one raised an eyebrow.

"I never 'joke,'" he replied smoothly. "As you can no doubt see, she has been used by another. What came of it was... unsatisfactory. It is my wish that _your_ attempt will be more... useful."

The Orc glanced at the sweetmeat. Its yellow hair hung in unkempt strings about its face. Its shoulders and what he could see of its body were covered in scars undoubtedly made by claws and teeth. Curling his lip, he rounded on the white one in a fury.

"I'll not be handing my whelps over," Sûmatuga snarled, "and I _ain't_ makin' none with _that_ bit of shit! I am Shatûpshaatii, and we don't come cheap!"

"And yet your leaders eagerly handed over their best," the white one smirked, "for nothing but spoken promises."

"That is because when Shatûpshaatii give our word, it is _honored_!" Sûmatuga roared, rattling the bars. "An Orc does not lie!"

The white one gazed at him impassively, unimpressed. "I am no Orc, fool."

Bellowing a war cry, Sûmatuga reached through the bars, slamming his shoulder against them as he stretched as far as he could. He nearly got a hold of the white one; the Orc's claws hooked on the fabric of his robes. Instantly, the Goblins that had stood idly by watching the exchange leaped into action, grabbing his arm and holding it in place.

"You will learn, eventually," the white one said, curling his lip and brushing off his robe where the claws struck, "that there are worse things than... breeding. You will learn that to defy my will is to beg punishment. To strike my person... well, that is _not done_." Glancing at the Goblins holding Sûmatuga's arm, the white one said, "Break it."

The Goblins shifted their position, then began slamming the Orc's arm against the bars. Sûmatuga struggled to free himself, but the effort became steadily more difficult as the pain mounted exponentially with every strike. Orc bones were thick and strong; it took the Goblins twenty minutes of determined effort to snap his upper arm above the elbow. When the crack echoed in the dank tunnel, heard even above the Orc's furious roars and pained cries, they released him. Sûmatuga staggered back and sank to his knees, holding his injured arm. Tears welled in his eyes as he trembled.

"Now I suppose breeding will be delayed," the white one sighed. "I trust you will get to it once you are mended. Woman," he snapped, and for a moment the female froze and darted a haunted look at the white one. "I suggest you tend his injury. He might show you... mercy." Chuckling as though he had just told his first joke, the white one directed a nod to one of his Goblins.

The _snaga_ tossed a few sticks and a rolled strip of cloth into the cell, then the white one and his servants departed. Sûmatuga couldn't rise. He could barely draw enough air in the midst of the quick, shallow breaths that alone kept the unseemly wailing at bay. He had endured many blows by sword and spear, hammer and axe, over the hundred years since his birth. Somehow, having his arm methodically broken against a cell door was worse than any.


	2. Chapter 2

No burning Orc draught was given, no bark of the willow, no opiates. Sûmatuga turned his red eyes to the sweetmeat and grimaced. Shifting to put his back to it, he fumbled the sticks with his good hand and the cloth strip with his teeth.

Every clumsy movement hurt, yet he was loathe to let the sweetmeat get close. They were not to be trusted, barely to be tolerated. But splinting his own arm was proving an impossible task.

Losing his patience, he turned and threw the sticks and cloth wrap at the sweetmeat. It cried out, startled, and cringed against the wall.

"Bind it!" he roared. The sweetmeat didn't move, except to shake with sobs and cover its head. Lurching awkwardly to his feet, he strode the few steps needed to reach its side and grabbed a fistful of hair. Hauling it up, Sûmatuga looked it over with disgust as it tried to both hide its body and release his grip. High-pitched whimpering came from its ever-moving lips in what he guessed must be its own tongue, for he knew it not.

Pushing it against the wall, he bent to retrieve the things he'd thrown at it and shoved them into its belly. The sweetmeat instinctively clasped them. Pointing to his swelling arm, he snarled slowly, "_Bind... it."_

Now the stupid meat seemed to get it, and hastily wrapped his arm with violently shaking hands. Like all of its kind, it stank of sweat and fear. It kept whispering, over and over again, the same words: _"Yfeliane méc né, yfeliane méc né, yfeliane méc né_."

He endured its mutterings long enough to have his arm bound, then he back-handed it into the cell wall. "Enough of your noise." He bared his teeth at it and snapped at the air, and it cowered. Snorting with satisfaction, he turned away and allowed a brief grunt of pain to escape. At least the sweetmeat bound it proper; likely didn't want to do it again. Not as stupid as he thought.

* * *

Sûmatuga's count told him two days had passed when he saw one of his clanmates dart down the tunnel. Hurrying to the bars, he bellowed to the Orc's back, "Run! Tell them! Tell them of us!" A handful of those stunted _snaga_ ran after, and Sûmatuga's quick hands got hold of one, yanking it off its feet.

With swift violence, he hauled the squealing _snaga_ closer, and proceeded to bang its head repeatedly against the bars. Though he favored his broken arm, his good one was more than strong enough to compensate. Even when the little fucker went limp and Sûmatuga's hands were warmed by its blood, he still rammed it into the door of his cell until its brains leaked out its ears. In a fury borne of his helplessness, he ripped the ears off and gouged out the eyes. He tore the flesh from its ugly, pulpy face, a mad grin upon his own. Roaring over his kill in triumph, he released the corpse to fall in a heap before his door.

"I am Sûmatuga! Blooded warrior of Shatûpshaatii!" he bellowed. "Hear me, brothers! Rise! Fight the white one and his slaves!" Up and down the tunnel, the sound of answering roars and rattling bars could be heard and Sûmatuga joined the clamor. With his good arm, for the injured one was only made worse by his attack on the _snaga_, he shook the bars and kicked them with his bare feet.

The upheaval only lasted a few more minutes. Suddenly, a harsh, cold wind blew through the tunnel, guttering the torches and shifting the corpse in front of Sûmatuga's cell a few feet. Shocked, the Orc took several steps back. His red eyes darted about in a panic. What strange magic was _this_?

Slow footsteps echoed in the silence that followed, and Sûmatuga found he was trembling. He dared a glance at the sweetmeat, as ever huddled in a tight ball, seemingly oblivious to all. Then the white one came into view, stopping to look at the broken _snaga_ on the floor. His cold eyes turned to Sûmatuga.

"Unfortunate," the white one said. Without looking behind him, he gestured, and the Pitmaster stepped up with a leer. "See that he pays for the death of your kin, Pitmaster." Then the white one continued down the tunnel.

Breath coming faster and tensing to spring, Sûmatuga readied himself. The Pitmaster with the heavy whip always coiled at his hip unlocked the door and stepped inside. The Orc barked a challenge and leaped, but a flick of the Pitmaster's wrist blinded him.

Roaring in pain, Sûmatuga staggered back, digging at his befouled eyes with his knuckles. That same grit the Pitmaster put on whip weals must be what he threw into the Orc's eyes, for it burned like fire. He wasn't able to avoid the kick that jarred his kneecap and sent him to his knees.

"No kin'uh mine," the Pitmaster growled as he laid into the much larger Orc with wild abandon. "This is just orders, maggot. Nothin' personal."

The Pitmaster's words were no comfort, and certainly no deterrent. Sûmatuga lunged at the Pitmaster's knees, but his eyes were still clouded, and he couldn't see well enough to strike true. The whipping halted only long enough for the Pitmaster to step out of the way, then kick Sûmatuga in the face with all his strength. Toppled over in a daze, the Orc was more easily dealt with.

When he felt his master's punishment had been properly meted out, the Pitmaster spat on the groaning Orc and fished in a pouch at his side. He pulled out rags and a pot of salve and tossed them on the floor next to the female.

"See to'im," he growled. "Master wants his cock, so the rest of'im gotta keep on. One piece or many don't matter." Smirking at her, he added, "Killin'im ain't gonna spare yuh." Then he let himself out and locked the door behind him.

Sûmatuga stirred, slowly rolling over onto his hands and knees. He sucked in a sharp breath for his injured knee and broken arm, but clenched his jaw and lurched to his feet clumsily. Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, he staggered to the bars and tried to see down the tunnel, strained his hears to hear _any_ sound of his clanmates.

There were defiant roars further away. The sound of the lash being applied. Ripping flesh and a gurgling cry. More whipping, dwindling in the distance.

He pressed his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes for a moment.

Turning away, he glared balefully at the sweetmeat. It was a smelly nuisance and he rarely paid it any mind. Sighing, he strode over and sat with his back to it, grabbed the salve and bandages, and reached back to push them into its arms. Then he waited, seething. Every breath was a menacing growl. When the sweetmeat hesitated, he barked over his shoulder at it. He was in no mood to be trifled with, least of all by a fucking sweetmeat.

He flinched with the first application of the salve, but only for its unexpected coolness. This was not the grit the Pitmaster used before. Probably because he could not enjoy the Orc's torment in person, Sûmatuga mused.

He didn't like this, being touched by a _sweetmeat_ in the same way as a member of his clan. They saw to one another's hurts, binding the wounds too difficult to manage alone. It made his skin crawl now, and he only endured it for a few minutes before lurching to his feet and striding away.

Again, he went to the bars and watched, not really certain what it was that made him so uneasy. There was a hush in the tunnel, as of a held breath, not merely the silence of cowed prisoners.

The sound of marching feet echoed sharply down the hall, and Sûmatuga's breath quickened once more. He gripped the bars tightly and strained to hear and see. Before long, a troop of _snaga_ appeared in full battle gear and wielding spears. Six halted before his door, yet warily stood against the opposite wall rather than get within striking distance of the Orc. Silence reigned once more as the soldiers took up their positions.

Then Sûmatuga heard the white one's voice, though he was further down the tunnel where the Orc couldn't see him.

"I grow weary of your pathetic defiance," he said, his voice silky smooth and deathly cold. "Though rations should be withheld because of your disobedience, some... choice flesh might convince you that continued resistance is futile. Sup well, Orcs. And remember this day."

The familiar sound of the meat cart rumbling down the hall came to Sûmatuga's ears, and his mouth watered reflexively. He strained to see where the cart was, so he might guess how long it would be before he was fed.

He shook himself angrily. Had he become no better than a beast in this place? Growling at himself, he nevertheless remained where he was, hopeful yet resentful.

A howling began at the far end of the tunnel. Sûmatuga recognized it as the deep-throated mourning thrum of his tribe. He was numb with dread as the _snaga_ across from him moved closer with spears leveled. They drove him back as the wagon rattled to a halt outside.

The pustule-covered Goblin who regularly passed out rations leered at him as he fumbled the key in the lock. "Somethin' special for yuh," he squeaked in his oddly high voice. "Master's regards." Digging in the depths of the cart, he produced a rounded object and tossed it at Sûmatuga's feet. "Better eat it. Master says yuh don't get nothin' else til yuh do." Snickering, the _snaga_ locked the door and moved on down the line.

He must have been the one who tried to escape, Sûmatuga realized as he looked down at the head on the floor. Slowly, he slid to his knees. "Matirz," he murmured, reaching out to put his hand on the forehead. They'd fought the Dwarves in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain together. Their whelps grew strong, Sûmatuga's son bonding to Matirz's daughter. He brought glory to the clan; many horsemen fell beneath his axe.

The _snaga_ took trophies, leaving the head earless and toothless. Sûmatuga's head fell back and he joined the howling that had grown louder with each Orc visited by the wagon.

* * *

Yfeliane méc né = don't hurt me (loosely translated)


	3. Chapter 3

In silence, Sûmatuga removed his filthy tunic with a grimace of disgust and laid it out on the dirty floor. He took care to stretch the corners flat and smooth out wrinkles. Twice he had to pull it up again to remove stones or other debris that marred the flat surface. With great care and reverence, he placed Matirz's head in the center of the cloth.

As had been taught to him by his sire, he murmured the tale of his clanmate's life, the great deeds he'd done, the enemies he'd slaughtered. All those foes Sûmatuga could name were honored by their naming, for they fell at the hands of a great Orc. He spoke promises of vengeance upon the white one, and begged the strength of Matirz to accomplish such a daunting task.

It would have been more appropriate with the bone-handled knife, carved from the tusk of a great mountain cat he and Matirz hunted long ago. But such a thing was lost to him now, beyond his reach. Even a clean mat for laying out the meal was a thing he could not have. He had only the words from long memory and custom, and the doing with teeth and claw.

With each part of Matirz he consumed, he repeated the promises, his eyes fixed on the door.

* * *

Another day passed before Sûmatuga felt strong enough, his arm whole enough, to make another attempt. Even a broken bone mended swiftly among Orc-kind, for to be brought low by injury was to die. The wagon came down the tunnel, as usual. The troops deployed after Matirz's failed escape attempt were no longer around; it was just the Pitmaster's lackeys scuttling up and down the hall like before. Sûmatuga cast a furtive glance behind at the dull shine of the skull pillowed on his discarded tunic and felt strengthened, as though Matirz were with him.

It was as close as he'd been to one of his clan in far too long for his comfort.

The Goblin stopped his meat cart outside the cell and snarled, "Back yuh get, or yuh get nothin'." Another _snaga_ thrust his spear through the bars, and Sûmatuga retreated a few steps. The Goblin rattled through the keys on his ring until he came up with the one for the Orc's cell, then unlocked the door.

A slight smile on his face, Sûmatuga shot a hand out and cuffed the Goblin smartly in the nose with the heel of his palm, then grabbed the spear haft. Yanking hard, he rammed the _snaga_ against the bars, knocking him senseless. He dimly noted the sweetmeat scuttling back away from the fight.

Turning on the stunned Goblin, Sûmatuga swiftly broke his neck and dropped him on the floor, then darted out the door to finish off the _snaga_. Blood surging, he raced down the tunnel in the opposite direction that he and Matirz had gone before, hoping he would be luckier this time.

The tunnel sloped upward and wound in a dizzy spiral. The Orc encountered a few _snaga_ on the way, and slew each one. He sensed freedom was within his grasp at long last, and tore apart the squealing _snaga_ with wild abandon.

As he rose through the earth, he could feel warmer air. He was getting close! One last turn...

Then he was out. The top of the spiral stair came out in a strange-looking stone hut, its walls covered with ivy. It was completely out of place with what it concealed. Sûmatuga stood blinking in the starlight, momentarily disoriented. He overcame such distractions swiftly, for the night air was crisp and clean, and he drew great draughts of it, filling his lungs that had only known the noisome confines of his cell for almost two weeks.

Had it only been a fortnight? It seemed an eternity.

Shaking himself, he darted into the trees growing thickly in the valley. His bare feet were soothed by the soft grass as he ran. With no clear idea what direction he should go in, he simply ran as fast as he could toward the mountains that ringed the valley. He was a mountain Orc; if there was a way out through rock and stone, he would find it.

The night's stillness was broken by the howling of wargs. Even an Orc's blood ran cold at the sound. Faltering, Sûmatuga slowed to a halt and turned, scenting the air. The howling came from his left and seemed a fair distance off. An answering howl, much nearer, sounded to his right.

Gasping in a panic, he took off again, heading straight ahead between the howling wargs. His clan had only cursory relations with the wargs of the Misty Mountains. Most if not all of those engaged in the great battle were lost and did not seek refuge in the south. Yet still Sûmatuga remembered them. Even those other clans who allied with the wargs and used them as mounts seemed only tolerated for the mutual benefit of the spoils they sought together. Sûmatuga frankly never trusted the wargs, for they had their own ideas and were as likely to turn on their allies as their foes in a battle.

The howling increased as the Orc ran, then he heard the pounding feet of a warg in pursuit. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw it; a great black beast whose shoulder was likely taller than him. Upon its back hunched a Goblin.

Desperate now, Sûmatuga ran flat out, but the warg gained on him easily. A second joined the chase, and the riders flanked the Orc as they overtook him. For the length of a heartbeat, he thought they might pass him by, but he soon knew the truth. Between them was strung a net, and its weave entangled his limbs, bringing him down in a rolling heap upon the grass.

The more he fought and tore at the rope net, the more stuck he became. The wargs and their riders circled back around and trotted up to his helpless form. One of the Goblins dismounted and came up to stoop over the Orc.

"Ah, now yuh done it, ain't yuh?" he crooned. "Lucky you we gotta check with Master 'fore we have at yuh. This gal's awful hungry." He patted the neck of the panting warg at his side. Motioning to his partner, who trotted leisurely off to the tower, he clucked his tongue and made to turn away. At the last second, he rounded on the Orc and kicked him soundly in the gut.

Sûmatuga was taken off guard, and his air escaped in a whoosh. Snarling, he struggled to free himself, but it only seemed to amuse his captor more.

"Gonna take'im some _time_," the _snaga_ told him casually, emphasizing his words with kicks to the face and head, "to let master _know_ yer up here. This _ain't_ where yer allowed to _be_, _pushdug_."

Using his legs to roll himself out of range, Sûmatuga chewed desperately on the ropes. The _snaga_ continued kicking him, adding a cudgel to the mix, until the Orc was dazed and unsure which way was up anymore. His focus sharpened suddenly when the warg sank its teeth into his hip. Bellowing in shocked pain, he hammered at the thing's muzzle with his fists.

"Here now, Hoitalgloblob," the _snaga_ chided. "Wait til master says. Heh. Here he comes now. Oh, yer gonna get it, fuckwit." The _snaga_ cackled madly, and his mount retreated.

Groaning from the fresh wound and the pain in his head from the _snaga_'s savagery, Sûmatuga almost didn't register the white robes of the master until they were right next to him.

"It is _you_ again, is it?" the white one said contemptuously. "If you did not possess qualities I wish to use, I would let them eat you." Sighing with annoyance, the white one snapped his fingers at the _snaga_. "Take him back to his cell. You need not do so gently."

The Goblin roughly yanked the net from around Sûmatuga's legs, but left his arms restrained. Then he hauled the Orc up to stand on unsteady legs. Holding his head up defiantly, Sûmatuga spat in the white one's face.

For the first time, the white one flinched. A look of profound distaste contorted his age-lined face as he wiped the spittle from his cheek. "You will, unfortunately, live to regret that," he growled, then turned away and strode to the tower.

"Yuh just don' know when tuh shut yer fuckin' mouth, do yuh?" the Goblin chuckled, pushing Sûmatuga ahead of him back to the benign cottage. "Almost wish I had pit duty. Watchin' master peel yer hide off strip by strip sounds like good sport."

* * *

By the time the Goblin had him locked in his cell once more, Sûmatuga had taken several more beatings from the _snaga_'s cudgel. The little fucker even knocked him down two or three turnings of the stair.

He could barely move. He was certain to have broken ribs now, and the large bite on his hip would likely fester if not tended. For now, he lacked the will to do anything about either injury. Dragging himself to the back of the small cell, he lay on the meager pallet he'd been afforded and lay still.

Had he known there were wargs, he wouldn't have tried.

As he breathed in the stench of the underground, he recalled the wind in his face as he ran. He could almost still taste the spring air. If he closed his eyes, he could see the trees.

The rattling of his cell door woke him from such thoughts, and he looked up to see the Pitmaster.

"Up you get, _pushdug_," he snarled, kicking Sûmatuga's legs. Three _snaga_ backed him up this time.

The Orc slowly rose. He allowed them to push him up against the bars and pull his arms through. He was numb.

"Gettin' it special this time," the Pitmaster said as he pulled a knife. Sûmatuga startled from his defeated stupor and jerked away, but the _snaga_ held him fast. "Master knows you been holdin' out on'im. Yer well enough to run, you can breed. Ain't gonna feel so good after this, but you fuckin' well better get on it or you're the next meal for that clan uh yers."

The Pitmaster cut his breeches off, tossing the tattered remains out the door. Uncoiling his whip, he gave Sûmatuga a long, drawn out lashing from shoulders to ankles that didn't let up until the Orc had pissed down his legs and collapsed in a heap.

"That'll teach yuh to run," the Pitmaster sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve and shaking out his whip arm. "And if it don't, master said yuh don't need yer legs tuh fuck. Just you remember that." Again, he tossed healing salves and bandages to the female. "He's bein' nice to yuh. Yuh want'im tuh be nicer still, yuh better see to'im." Then he left the cell. There were other upstarts needing a lesson. Not so many as stubborn as this fuckwit, but a few.

What baffled the Pitmaster about this lot was the refusal to breed. Sûmatuga wasn't the only one getting a thrashing at every turn of the sun for not doing what he was supposed to do. If _he_ were locked up in a cell with nothing to do and nowhere to go, _he'd_ be fucking every minute.


	4. Chapter 4

Sûmatuga might have become fully aware earlier if not for the soothing of his hurts by the sweetmeat. The pain was receding not growing, and he felt stronger. It was the strangest thing; he hadn't even demanded it of the thing. In fact, he barely acknowledged its presence in his cell at all. But as he lay there trembling on the floor by the bars where he'd collapsed, he could feel its hands on him, rubbing ointment into the many cuts down his legs. His shoulders and back seemed to have already been tended, for they pained him less than expected.

He found he didn't care what it did. Nor did he much care that it was a sweetmeat at the moment. He'd been shown the futility of his attempts at escape quite vividly. The _snaga_ would not take his part; they were too much in thrall to the white one. The Goblins were just as useless. Though the thought of endless days in this cell made him tremble with despair, he did not want to go down without a fight. That was not the way of the Shatûpshaatii.

Lying still with only his and the sweetmeat's breathing filling the cell, he could hear the distant howls and roars of his clanmates as the Pitmaster worked his way down the line. There were no coherent words; the lash did not allow it. Not very far away, he could hear a rattling thump, as of someone steadily beating his head against the bars, and there was a sound he never thought he'd hear from his own kind: sobbing.

The sounds of his clanmates had always given him strength. The laughter and good-natured taunting, the boasting of great deeds. Even the eerie croon of a howling to mourn the fallen had filled him with fierce pride. But to hear them in torment, despairing and defeated, sapped his strength and left him feeling alone and bereft.

Perhaps it was the flogging that left his body desiring warmth, or the loss of all his clothing. Maybe he was becoming feverish.

Sûmatuga could tell himself all sorts of lies if he wished, but the truth of it was that he needed to _feel_ his clanmates as much as see them or smell them. He'd gone two weeks without contact with another living being, and now as he teetered on the edge of despair, he craved it.

The sweetmeat was near. It had done for him what a clanmate would. Grimacing with disgust, he reached behind him and grabbed it about the waist, then hauled it over his body to lie in front of him.

Of course, it struggled and squealed like a pig. More of its gibberish talk he didn't understand. Closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at it, he pulled it into the curve of his body and held it close.

It was warm. Its heart was beating, albeit too fast. After a few moments, its struggles ceased and it lay just as still as he. Gradually, its heartbeat slowed, and it sagged in his arms.

Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. If he didn't look at it, he could imagine it was one of his folk. Matirz, for one. He was always a good one to lie next to on the march. Didn't mind so much if you bumped up against him, and Sûmatuga did that often enough, so restlessly did he sleep. Or Dhûrum who'd give you a fuck if you asked her nice. Didn't matter how nicely Sûmatuga asked, though; she'd still make him beg on his knees. Matirz she'd fuck in an instant; Sûmatuga had to work for it.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest for a moment, remembering them. He'd considered bonding to Dhûrum, if she'd have him. Which she wouldn't. Disappointing, that rejection. She was a fine, strong female. He and Matirz had both whelped on her, and she bore them fine sons. Maybe he and Matirz were just a shade more competitive because of her, always trying to outdo one another and catch her favor.

She wound up bonding to a chieftain twenty years ago, only to have him slain a year later by a challenger. Never the same after that. Losing a bonded mate was near ruination among his kind, at least where mating was concerned. Not many went through with it, since the hole left behind was impossible to fill again. But while the bond held, and your mate was at your side, there wasn't anything you couldn't do.

His thoughts drifted away as the here and now returned. To his surprise, the sweetmeat was asleep. Sighing, he shifted to a more comfortable lie, and let himself sleep as well.

* * *

When Sûmatuga awoke, his senses sharpened quickly. The sweetmeat still lay in his arms. Down the hall, he could hear the sounds of pick axes. He stiffened; were they digging out more cells? Would more of his folk come to be caged like beasts?

Rather than rush the bars and bellow a protest, he sagged against the sweetmeat's body. He felt it startle awake and stiffen. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his face into its hair. It was filthy, but so was he, he supposed. It certainly wasn't any better or worse than one of his kind at this point.

It might have been lingering memories of Dhûrum, or a dream of her, that caused it, but he felt his cock stiffening against the sweetmeat's backside. The sweetmeat must have felt it too, for it began to tremble and whimper.

He'd never rutted a sweetmeat outside the heat of battle, when the blood was boiling and the taste of victory was on his tongue. Fucking it now seemed akin to mating, and abhorrent for its implications. Yet he needed it. He needed the comfort of it, the closeness, the pleasure. All else in this place had sought to take his life from him; perhaps a fuck – just _one_ – might give him some of it back.

Fixing the thought of Dhûrum in his mind, he rolled on top of the sweetmeat and pushed its legs apart with his knees. It protested and struggled, but he ignored it. He didn't even look at it, keeping his eyes closed the whole time. Sinking into its body, he tried to draw strength from it as he would have from coupling with Dhûrum.

It didn't help when the sweetmeat stopped struggling and went still beneath him. Dhûrum would have been clawing at him as much as he at her. Her receptivity to him would have inspired marking, but the sweetmeat's unresponsiveness didn't invite anything at all. Frowning, he finally opened his eyes and looked at its face.

He'd never once taken note of a sweetmeat's face while rutting it in a raid. They always put up a hell of a fight, though, so this one's quiescence gave him pause. Its eyes were squeezed shut and it was worrying its lower lip. Its head was turned to the side, so not to see him.

Sûmatuga realized the sweetmeat didn't want to be here any more than he did. Likely didn't want him fucking it any more than he wanted to fuck a sweetmeat at the moment. He faltered on such a thought, one that had never occurred to him before. True, he knew sweetmeats didn't want Orc cocks, but... he never _cared_ what they wanted. Why would he care now?

Then, quite suddenly, he _knew_ why. It was there, tickling at the back of his mind. His body, his mind, his spirit craved a bonding. He'd denied it for a hundred years, every time it flared up. But here and now, in this place, when he was so close to letting despair overwhelm him, it was there.

Growling low in his throat, he finished quickly and shot off the sweetmeat. He didn't want this, not with a fucking _sweetmeat_! Scooting away, he stared at it as it curled itself into a ball and wept.

"Nice," a voice chortled nearby, and Sûmatuga spun on his haunches. A Goblin he recognized as having patrol duties in the hall was leaning against the opposite wall, watching him. "About fuckin' time, meat. Have at her again; I'll call some more over." The Goblin nearly doubled over laughing.

The Orc rose and gripped the bars tightly. "Is the white one satisfied now?" he snarled.

"Pfft," the Goblin snorted. "Not til yuh whelp'er. However long it takes, however many times it takes. You keep at it, meat."

"Then... I will be free?" Sûmatuga asked quietly, hopefully.

The Goblin sprayed spit, he laughed so hard. Then he resumed his circuit, shaking his head at the stupid breeder.

Slowly, Sûmatuga slid down the bars to his knees. Though he'd never known such black despair, he knew what it was, and what it would do to him. The sounds of digging were an endless reminder that the white one would bring more of his folk unknowing to this place, thinking they would slay the horsemen.

Yet his will to fight was flagging, as was his determination to tell his chieftains of their folly.

At a loss, he crawled once more to the sweetmeat and curled around its body, hugging it close. Again, the protestations followed by stillness. Sûmatuga gradually calmed, feeling the warmth of the sweetmeat's body. He was even getting used to its odd smell.

He didn't want to think about bonding, but so close to the sweetmeat, and so close to the bottom of the dark pit, he couldn't avoid it. A bond between mates was a comfort; a bond unrequited was a torment. Returned or not, the bond was irreversible, and once accepted and allowed to take hold, could not be repeated with another. Most warriors of his clan never accepted it, for their lives were necessarily short compared to the rest of the clan. Sûmatuga had seen first hand the aftermath of a foolishly accepted bond when the warrior or his mate was slain, and so never allowed it himself.

Dhûrum was, of course, different. He would have risked it for an Orcess of her quality.

What it would do for him in this place was allow him to share strength with the sweetmeat, he knew. It would give him something to fight for. Loyalty to the clan was of great importance, of course, but the bond to a mate put fire in the belly. If he did it, if he let the bond take hold, that fire he had before would be reignited.

Because he had to try again. He had to escape. The chieftains had to be told the white one was not to be trusted. Even if it meant suffering banishment for choosing such an unworthy mate. The clan was more important even than _that_.

Maybe it would be different with a sweetmeat, he mused. Since it wasn't one of his kind, perhaps the bond wouldn't be as strong. If he made it to the surface, he could let the wargs have it; keep them busy while he escaped.

Yes, that was a good plan, he thought. Take what he needed from the pitiful thing, build up his strength, then feed it to the wargs as a bribe. They likely didn't get sweetmeats for their meals with the frequency that the breeding stock did.

Settled on his decision, Sûmatuga sat up and pulled the sweetmeat up to sit facing him. Confused, it kept darting its leaking eyes around, lips trembling. He had to grab its face to hold it still and force it to look him in the eyes. He closed his for a moment and searched for that tiny spark that must be fanned to a flame for the bond to stick.

Deep in the blackest depths of his despair, he found it. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked into the sweetmeat's.

_Come along, now_, he told the bond. _Take it. Even if it's ugly._

Gradually, a warmth spread through his insides. It was a heady thing, reaching into every part of his body. It tingled his fingers and toes like a good Orc draught. He could feel something else, as well. He would have expected the sense of protectiveness had it been an Orcess. He wouldn't have been surprised by affection, either.

To his horror, he not only felt possessive of it... _her_, he wanted to keep _her_ safe. He wanted to wipe the tears from her eyes and comfort her. He wanted to beg forgiveness for making her weep.

He felt exactly the same way for her as his da did for his ma, and he knew he'd made a terrible mistake.


	5. Chapter 5

_Why did I __**do**__ this?_ Sûmatuga scolded himself. He'd been a fool, and now... He brushed tears from her cheek with a clawed thumb. Lip trembling, her eyes rose to his, her brow pinching uncertainly. They couldn't speak; neither knew the other's tongue. His own expression softened; he could feel it in the release of tension in his face. He replaced it with a scowl and backed away. He turned his back to her for good measure.

Yet he wanted to whelp her; _needed_ to do it. As if he were back with his clan and his young would grow to adulthood, a benefit to and protector of the clan like their da. Even knowing such a fate would be denied his pups didn't diminish the need. Rubbing his face roughly, he contemplated ending his life rather than...

No. That was _not_ the Shatûpshaatii way. He had a mate now, much as the thought disgusted him. A sweetmeat. A fucking _sweetmeat_. Could he be brought any lower?

Glancing over, he saw she hadn't moved. She still sat where he left her, trembling and hugging herself. He grimaced, for he was drawn to her. Moving to his hands and knees, he crawled toward her slowly, a soothing purr rumbling in his chest. Startled, she backed away and he slowed even more. When she ran out of room to retreat, she squeezed her eyes closed and whimpered. He gently turned her so her back was to him, and began to delicately pick out the tangles in her hair.

The activity calmed him, and he settled into it. Her hair was once yellow, he imagined, but was now a dingy light brown. Gradually, her trembling eased, and he was inexplicably pleased. Leaning forward, he nuzzled her ear and was momentarily surprised when she jerked away from him. He shook himself; he wasn't a youth with stupid assumptions and no experience. He'd done wrong by this female, mounting her without permission. More groveling would be required to gain acceptance, or at least tolerance. He had no illusions of requital. In that way lay madness.

Sighing, he returned to her grooming.

* * *

Enough meals were brought that he counted another week passing by. The white one hadn't returned, but the picks had stopped digging out holes. Sûmatuga spent his waking time grooming the female, for there was nothing else to do and it helped take his mind off things. She sometimes slept while he was at it, which he found encouraging. He wished she'd tend to _his_ tangled locks; like all of his kind, he hadn't much hair, but what there was needed a good seeing to. Every other day, he tested her receptivity with a nuzzle or a caress, and each time there was a little less resistance.

When her reactions became indifference, he took her as gently as he could. It was disappointing not to please her, but he supposed that would never be. She allowed him to mount her; she allowed him to embrace her when they slept. That would have to do.

As he'd hoped, he drew strength and determination from the bond. Once he was actively mating with the female, his drive to escape intensified. But he could wait. There would be an opportunity, as there had been before, and he would be ready for it.

He'd whelped many females of his clan to rebuild their numbers. He knew by her scent change that he'd been successful, that she now carried his young. A moment of panic assailed him; what if the white one knew of it? Might he remove her to protect the pup until birth? Every meal delivered ratcheted up his tension, and he shielded his female from the _snaga_ lest they also take note of her scent. But their indifference to him was almost as great as the female's, and they ignored his possessiveness.

The need to protect her _and_ their whelp was terrifically strong. Taking them all out of this place became an obsession, and he watched the patrols carefully, noting the timing and the numbers. Sûmatuga couldn't let too much time pass, for the female would be unable to run if allowed to go too long with a great mountain Orcling in her belly.

He stole a moment as he stood by the bars, watching the _snaga_ swagger down the hall, to imagine what his whelp might be like. His last two had been females; he rather hoped for a male this time. A fierce, strong male to carry his blood and the blood of his clan. One he could be proud of. One that would never know such torment as this, would never be caged, would know the free air.

One that would have a proper mate.

If only she... Sighing, he shook his head. He had no doubt she'd follow him out and likely remain at his side. Where else could she go? Her own folk would likely be as repelled by him as his would be by her. He knew he wouldn't let her leave in any case. That was the curse of the bond as much as the blessing of it.

The distant rumble of the meat wagon caught his attention, and he stiffened. Searching his memory, he decided the time was right. That last _snaga_ would be at the other end by the time the wagon reached his cell, and the Goblin now on ration duty only had one spear-wielding _snaga_ guard. It seemed they hadn't learned much since the last time he made a run for it.

Taking deep breaths to calm himself, Sûmatuga edged closer to his female and exchanged a look with her. Her eyes, normally dulled by despair, widened as she grasped that something was happening, something different. Perhaps it was the set of his shoulders or the tension he couldn't seem to hide. She slowly rose to her feet and gave him a short nod.

A surge of confidence shot through him. She may despise him and everything to do with him, but at this moment, they were joined as one. He nodded in return, then looked to the door and the hall beyond.

The Goblin with his wagon finally arrived, and his guard jabbed through the bars with his spear to convince Sûmatuga to keep his distance. Keys rattled as the Goblin hunted up the right one and opened the door.

This time, Sûmatuga didn't just pull the _snaga_ up against the bars; he wrenched the spear from its grasp as well, and spitted the Goblin with it. So great was his fury now, he drove the Goblin clear out of the cell and up against the opposite wall. Kicking him off the end of the spear, he lunged into the dazed _snaga_ and put a swift end to it as well.

Breathing heavily, he looked back at his mate and extended a hand to her. She hesitated only a moment, then scurried out to stand by him. She didn't take his hand.

Burying the disappointment, he aimed for the spiral stair and ran, the spear heavy and reassuring in his hands. He heard her footsteps running behind him, following in his wake, and his determination rose.

In short order, he learned the reason for the digging activity he'd nearly forgotten about.

At the base of the stairs was a new guard room, and at least thirty _snaga _within. He blinked, stunned for a moment, and just stood there. They seemed just as startled. Several sat frozen with their ration of meat halfway to their mouths; a few hunching over a game of Knucklebones turned to stare at him.

Sûmatuga's eyes darted to the stairs, so close... then the _snaga_ swarmed him.

He fought fiercely, roaring and impaling the first few on his stolen spear, but there were too many. His mate screamed as one darted around him to grab her, and while the need to protect her gave him greater strength and ferocity, it was a hopeless fight against so many.

They didn't kill him, but they certainly beat him nearly enough to accomplish it. He could barely move his own legs to help or hinder as they dragged him back to that hated cell. They dropped him face down and locked the door. Then he heard his female screaming.

Jolting to attention, he staggered to the bars and roared in fury and desperation. He couldn't even see her amidst the pile of _snaga_ except in flashes of pale flesh. One after the other rutted her with wild abandon, and he reached futilely through the bars for her, grasping at the air.

The commotion must have alerted others, for soon the Pitmaster himself scuttled down the tunnel with his usual contingent of _snaga_. Sûmatuga half expected him to join in, but he cuffed and shoved the _snaga_ until he'd reached the female at the bottom of the pile. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her limp, unresisting body to the cell. So consumed with grief and worry was he that Sûmatuga didn't make any attempt to overpower the Pitmaster when he unlocked the door and tossed the female inside.

He felt sick to his stomach as he gathered her tortured body into his arms and held her against him, rocking and moaning. That she still lived finally registered, and he tried to sooth her. It took another minute to realize the Pitmaster was speaking to him.

"... won't be happy if this lot managed to whelp her," he was grumbling. Sûmatuga slowly looked over his shoulder and leveled a hateful glare at the Goblin. The Pitmaster snorted, unimpressed by the breeder's threatening look. "She'll have to be checked. Better hope she's already got one'uh yours in her. Master don't waste nothin' on somethin' one'uh _us_ made."

Turning away, the Pitmaster barked orders to the the _snaga_ guards and followed them back to their quarters. Sûmatuga eased the female onto his own pallet and fetched the small pot of salve she'd used on his wounds. She'd been clawed up all over; he could _smell_ them on her, and that was even worse than her natural scent. His own hurts mattered little; he carefully rubbed ointment into hers.

After a few minutes, she seemed to drift out of her stupor, undoubtedly embraced to spare her the horror of what happened in the hall. He wished _he_ hadn't seen it. She was his now, with all that went with it. Seeing him, she cringed and cowered, trying to get her weakened limbs to push herself away. Though his despair was returning, the hopelessness of before making it difficult for him to bolster himself let alone anyone else, he gently pushed her back down and rumbled quietly in his chest, trying to calm her. The look she gave him told him that one moment when they were one was gone. She dared to put her trust in him and he failed her.

He collapsed beside her on the pallet and succumbed to the blackness he thought the bond would forever hold at bay. He pulled her against his body despite her feeble resistance and held on. A whimpering sound came to his ears, sort of the high-pitched precursor to a wail, and he stroked her hair. He nuzzled her and murmured calming words in her ear. She covered her face with shaking hands and wept. It was a miserable sound, and wrung his heart. He felt a lump rising in his own throat, and knew it was coming for him, as well.

When the tears fell from his own eyes, and the sobs tore from him, he knew he'd lost everything that gave him the strength to fight on. The fire was out; he felt cold and alone.

The Pitmaster returned not long after, as Sûmatuga knew he would. He tightened his hold on the female; _just one more moment_. The lock rattled, and the door opened.

"Get up, you," the Pitmaster snarled, kicking Sûmatuga's legs. The Orc growled, but didn't move. "I _said_, get the fuck _up_!" the Pitmaster roared, grabbing Sûmatuga's arm and pulling hard to dislodge his grip on the female.

By now, Sûmatuga was resigned to receiving punishment for trying to escape. He slowly released the female and rose to his feet. The Pitmaster smirked with satisfaction and pushed him over to the bars. Sûmatuga put his arms through, letting the _snaga_ get a grip on them to hold him in place.

The female's yelp shook him out of his apathy. He could only turn his head, for the _snaga_ at his arms yanked him hard against them so he couldn't move. The Pitmaster had her by the hair and was dragging her out of the cell.

"Let her go!" Sûmatuga roared. "ME! Punish _me_ if you have to! Not _her_!"

"Ain't that sweet, now?" the Pitmaster sneered as he pushed the female into the hands of another. "Needs checkin', or did you forget? If she's clean, you get'er back."

Sûmatuga bit his lip. They'd surely discover his pup now.

The Pitmaster gestured, and the _snaga_ holding Sûmatuga's trembling, weeping mate dragged her stumbling down the hall, deeper into the bowels of the underground, not to the stairs and the outside. Concerns for her were forgotten with the first bite of the lash.

"Gonna have to tend yer worthless hide myself," the Pitmaster growled. "Brought my special shit, just for you. We're gonna have a nice time; maybe you forget yer little bit'uh cunt, eh?"

The flogging was painful and rendered Sûmatuga nearly mindless as wounds beginning to heal were ripped open once more. There wasn't much left of his back that hadn't been torn apart. At least the Pitmaster didn't do his whole backside this time; that was, apparently, a punishment reserved for those who made it outside.

He would have preferred a full measure of whipping if only to avoid the burning salve the Pitmaster slathered thickly on his wounds. The once-proud Shatûpshaatii warrior was reduced to bellowing and sobbing, shaking at the knees with piss running down his legs. Then he was knocked to the floor, kicked a few times, and eventually left alone.

* * *

The first few days after they took his mate away, Sûmatuga spent all his time at the bars, peering as far down the tunnel as he could. He barely slept, and no amount of food assuaged the twisting in his gut. The Pitmaster didn't come round again; it seemed only one thing urged his presence, and Sûmatuga dreaded tempting the old bastard. He might make Sûmatuga's mate suffer, if she even still lived.

He paced endlessly for a week. The Goblin with the wagon ignored Sûmatuga's pleading for some word of what became of his mate. If anything, he snickered over the Orc's desperation.

Perhaps two weeks passed, and the Pitmaster returned. His lackeys bore chains. Warily, Sûmatuga backed away from the door without being told.

"Come along, now," the Pitmaster said as he turned the key in the lock. "Play nice and nobody gets hurt."

"What is this?" Sûmatuga growled. Two nervous _snaga_ came in with the chains and manacles.

"Been hearin' how you wanna see what come of your female," the Pitmaster said, gesturing for the _snaga_ to proceed. "Gonna take you to her."

Startled by the offer, Sûmatuga didn't protest while the _snaga_ snapped the heavy metal cuffs around his ankles and wrists, then attached a chain between them. He was hopelessly hobbled; running would not be an option. Fighting would be nearly impossible as well.

"Where is she?" he asked once they'd pushed him out of the cell.

Seeing the look on Sûmatuga 's face, the Pitmaster chuckled. "Stupid fuckwit. Yuh thought that'd help yuh, huh?" He shook his head. "Ain't no help down here. Wasted yer one chance, not that it matters. Yuh ain't leavin' alive." He sighed almost sympathetically, shaking his head. "Suppose it _don't_ matter, then, do it?"

As he shuffled down the hall, Sûmatuga saw his clanmates for the first time, locked in their cells. Only one or two retained any sort of interest in what was happening around them to gaze dully through the bars. One was resignedly rutting his sweetmeat, grunting quietly with clear distaste. Sûmatuga stopped looking at them.

Wherever he was being led, it was deep down. The air wasn't as thick with the stench of the cells here, but neither was it remotely pleasant. He smelled sickness and death here. The Pitmaster took him to a small cavern where he was startled to see not only his female lying on a stone bier, but the white one himself.

Sûmatuga began to shake, and glared furiously at the white one. But only for a moment; his female was not dead. To his shock, her belly was grown large, and he thought he'd gone mad. Had so much time passed that she was now almost ready to bear his whelp? A mixture of thrilled anticipation and uncertain dread filled him and he stumbled forward with a _snaga_ spear poking his back.

"Welcome, Orc," the white one said coldly. Sûmatuga's eyes widened, seeing a brightly glittering knife in the white one's hand. "I have been told that you might be... interested."

"What're you doing?" Sûmatuga snapped. He looked down at his mate's face, and their eyes met. He tried to tell her without words that he was here now; he'd help her if he could. He wouldn't fail her again. But her eyes were distant and mad. Whatever had been done to her made her forget him, or see him as no different from any other monster in this place. She slowly returned her blank gaze to the ceiling.

"Step back, Orc," the white one snarled, and his _snaga_ leaped to action, pulling him a few yards back from the bier. Though he was hobbled and shackled, they held his arms firmly. The white one turned his cold attention to the female, and used the knife to split her belly open.

The Orc's reaction was swift, but not unexpected, and the _snaga_ held on tight as he struggled to reach her side. Sûmatuga's furious roar echoed in the stone-walled chamber. The female convulsed and screamed, her fluids pouring from the gaping wound. The white one reached into her body and carefully pulled out a large mass.

The shock of such a strange thing stilled Sûmatuga. He'd never seen one of his folk's young in this state; were they all like this, or only when breeding with sweetmeats? The white one turned it this way and that in his hands, examining it carefully. Then he nodded with satisfaction.

"Excellent," he murmured. "Male." The _snaga_ attending to him received the fluid-covered sack containing Sûmatuga's whelp – his _son_ – with great care. Then the white one turned his cold stare on Sûmatuga.

"I have not forgotten your insolence." Sûmatuga tore his eyes from the pup and looked at the white one. Glowering with malice, the white one swiped the knife across the female's throat, ending her wailing and her struggles.

Sûmatuga felt as though his insides had been ripped asunder as she went still. Sobbing and bellowing his fury and despair, he lashed out, taking one of his handlers off his feet and sending him flying at the wall. The Orc nearly knocked himself to the floor as the short chains snapped taut. The one remaining kicked the back of his knee to try and bring the Orc down, but it wasn't nearly enough. Other _snaga_ in the chamber rushed to the fray and leaped upon him, bearing him down by weight of numbers until his face was pressed into the rock floor.

Nearly suffocating, Sûmatuga stilled, then saw the crisp white robes of the white one standing before him.

"You have been nothing but trouble since you arrived," he said flatly. "Another group from your clan is on its way; your 'chieftains' believe the war goes well and additional numbers are needed." Sûmatuga moaned hopelessly, and the white one chuckled. "I have more that are... compliant. I believe I have all I need from _you_." Turning away, he addressed the Pitmaster.

"Kill him," he said quietly.

"What'll we do 'bout the meat, master?" the Pitmaster asked sycophantically.

"Feed the female to the breeders," the white one said negligently. "You and yours may have _this_ one."

"Aye, master," the Pitmaster replied. "Many thanks."

Sûmatuga lay beneath the pile, barely registering the pain as many knives pierced his hide. Worse than dying this way, chained like a beast and unable to at least go down in a proper fight, was knowing his flesh would not be given to his clanmates. What little he had would not benefit them in the least. He'd failed them as well. Tears fell as oblivion claimed him.


	6. Chapter 6

The Pitmaster stood behind his _snaga_ helpers as they tore through the membrane on the newest Uruk. By now, their sires were unknown, forgotten. Months had passed and the Pitmaster didn't give nearly the amount of shit about these things as the master did. All he knew was that the lot in this pit were whelped by those stubborn bastard mountain Orcs. None from that group remained now.

They sure made it fun in the pits, though. He almost missed those days, getting called down to the cells every now and again by a panic-stricken _snaga_ as one or another of them made a try for freedom. Some of them even had their whiteskins with them, on occasion fighting at their sides. Odd thing, that.

Any that made it up top didn't come back down; master gave up on that real quick. If they were determined enough to haul themselves and their whiteskins to the surface, they were warg food. It was one of the few sources of Man-flesh for the non-breeders short of pilfering the stores. Course, the Goblins got their fun if the stupid fucks had a female with them. Go after a whiteskin in the pits, you got in a world of trouble; fuck'em on the surface, and nobody gave a shit.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to the birthing. He'd seen enough of them to know he'd likely lose at least one handler before the thing was cowed proper. Sure enough, it shook its disorientation off fast and strangled one.

"All right, yuh had yer fun, whelp," he snapped, stepping in with a cudgel. A couple of _snaga_ grabbed the Uruk's arms and held him firm as the Pitmaster gave him a clout in the face. "Take him." The _snaga_ dragged the slightly dazed Uruk to get cleaned off.

The fire was definitely in the belly of this one, the Pitmaster noted. He barked and protested as buckets full of cold water were thrown in his face. The tenders wisely used rags on long poles to scrub the slime from his body, keeping themselves well clear of his sharp claws.

When the half-Man was clean enough, the Pitmaster sent a runner to notify master. Seeing the newborn heaving great, furious breaths, standing there quivering in the alcove with a thoroughly malevolent glare fixed on him, the Pitmaster _almost_ got nervous.

A hush seemed to precede the coming of the master, and the Pitmaster turned. Forcing himself to fawn as was expected, he simpered, "Another one ripened for yuh, master."

The white one looked over the Uruk with thinly veiled disgust. "Which pit did he come from? Which hole?"

"Lessee, that'd be number nine, master," the Pitmaster supplied. "Hole three."

"Ah yes," the master nodded with recognition. "_That_ one. A troublesome male sired him. He was in the third cell of the first tunnel, if you recall."

At least three had swiftly rotated through that cell since this whelp was dragged out of its dam, so the Pitmaster just nodded as though he could remember one more than another of those filthy beggars. Master wasn't fooled, though; he added, "The one who discovered the guard room, to his dismay."

_Now_ the Pitmaster remembered exactly which piece of shit master was talking about and grinned. "Aye. The big ugly one from the White Mountains. Never did take too well to it, did he?"

"No," master agreed. "When I selected him from among his fellows, he boasted of fighting under Bolg's banner." Shaking his head, he smirked.

The Pitmaster frowned; he hadn't known of that. "They got... odd ways," he ventured.

Seeming not to hear, likely not caring either, master motioned for _snaga_ to restrain the newborn and he approached. He gazed impassively into the fierce face, the piercing yellow eyes. He grasped the Uruk's chin and pivoted his head around to look at ears, nose, mouth. His cold gaze roamed up and down the whelp's body. Gesturing to the _snaga_, he silently bade them turn the Uruk around, then looked him over there as well.

The _snaga_ turned the Uruk back around to face master. Nodding to the _snaga_, he addressed the Pitmaster. "He is well-made. I am... pleased. Hold him." Reaching toward the Uruk, master placed his hand on the uncomprehending beast's forehead.

The Uruk's reaction to being touched was to lunge backward, but the _snaga_ held him tight. His bark of protest was swiftly cut off as master began to murmur. Gasping for breath as the pain mounted, the Uruk eventually could bear it no longer and released a horrifically loud scream that stopped all activity in the chamber cold. All that could be heard as the Uruk's scream echoed to silence, and he stood there quivering, his mouth hanging open, was the master's soft muttering.

He had to admit it, the Pitmaster thought, there wasn't anything uglier than this, seeing something as fierce and free as the newborn half-Men getting their minds taken over. Whatever made his sire defiant for so long would likely get smothered by the treatment. This one would come out of it in a few hours of drooling and trembling in a ball. Then he'd _know_. He'd have language and hate. He'd do anything he was told. He'd fight and die for their master without question.

Sad, really. The Pitmaster was of the mind that an enemy was your enemy cause he _earned_ it. This lot _had_ none, having just drawn breath like helpless pups. Except they weren't helpless. Soon as they came out, they could kill. Most of'em were big enough to make _him_ wary, even with all his years of experience dealing with upstarts.

Shaking himself, he realized master was done with this one and had left already. "Take him to a hole," he told the _snaga_ tenders. They lifted the limp body by the arms and dragged it off to recover in an alcove off the main chamber.

* * *

The Pitmaster had orders of what identifying marks to put on the newborns, but he always added his own touches. Maybe they were half-Men, but they looked Orcish. Likely more of master's sorcery, not just speeding them along in the belly and the ground but making them look like Orcs, cause even an Orcish-looking _Man_ wasn't near as nasty by himself as _this_ lot.

The mountain Orc's whelp was in front of him now, and he looked him over. Even something as tainted as these beasts oughta have a name, he supposed. It was, truthfully, one of the few pleasures of his job; naming the newborns.

"Yer an ugly cunt, ain't yuh?" he muttered, and the Uruk curled his lip. "Heard you been kickin' the smaller ones around in the barracks already. Movin' up in the ranks, eh?"

The Uruk smirked. "Ain't no match for me. Sometimes they gotta be told."

"Well, see you don't kill'em _all_ off," the Pitmaster advised as he poked through his branding plates. "Few enough'uh you lot as it is."

Snorting, the Uruk said nothing. His face betrayed fury at the reproach, however. The Pitmaster was glad of the big Uruks flanking this one, their mere presence enough of a deterrent for most. "Know what yer here for, eh?"

"Aye," the Uruk growled sullenly. "Namin'. I get a plate with my name on it?"

"No, yuh dumb fuck," the Pitmaster replied absently. "These are what put the name on _you_. Think I got a good name for yuh, though." Nodding, he fixed the rectangular plate and the one that most resembled a clenched fist, though barely, on the end of his iron and stuck it into the smoldering coals of the brazier beside him.

"How's this work, then?" the Uruk asked, his voice betraying a hint of worry.

"Yuh stand there and take it," the Pitmaster answered. Nodding to the brutes on either side of the Uruk, he added, "If yuh don't, _they_ make yuh take it."

The Uruk raised his chin and glared down his blunt nose at the Pitmaster. "I'll take it. Don't need _them_." He crossed his arms defiantly over his bare chest.

The Pitmaster chuckled, shaking his head. Shifting the branding iron in the coals, he decided it was hot enough and lifted it out. "Arms down, and hold still or it'll get fucked up and ain't nobody gonna let yuh live it down."

Grimacing, the Uruk lowered his arms and braced himself, for he'd apparently figured out what was coming. The Pitmaster rose from his stool and got closer. Aiming for the center of the chest where the ribs met at a flat bone, he pushed the brand into the Uruk's flesh. Then he watched the whelp's face with grim amusement.

The stench of his own burning skin made the Uruk's nose wrinkle, and the pain of it clenched his jaw. The Pitmaster held the brand in place and said, "Master didn't give you the tongue of your kind, so I'll tell yuh what yer name means. It's 'angry leader,' since yuh ain't stopped scowlin' since you got birthed. I expect if yuh keep up with the fightin' in the barracks, you'll have respect enough to lead one day."

When he pulled the brand away, the Uruk gasped and sagged a little, but quickly masked it, straightening and putting his shoulders back defiantly. His nostrils flared as he drew sharp breaths to keep from making any show of pain. The Pitmaster nodded with satisfaction.

"Welcome to Isengard, Nûrzgrat."

* * *

**A/N:** Read the further adventures of Nûrzgrat in "Misfire of Global Proportions," and the exciting sequel "Hookup of Epic Proportions"!


End file.
